


Thy Neck with Chains of Gold

by poisonivory



Category: Daredevil (Comics)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BDSM, Barebacking, Bathing/Washing, Bondage, Cancer, Canonical Character Death, Choking, Cunnilingus, Edgeplay, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Grief/Mourning, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rope Bondage, Scratching, Service Top, Threesome - M/M/M, Under-negotiated Kink, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5881270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt Murdock attempts submission: a history in ten parts.</p><p>(Detailed warnings in the notes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thy Neck with Chains of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a ramble through comics!Matt's sexual history from a BDSM angle. For show fans, I've included extensive notes in the second chapter (they were too long to fit in the notes field! I'm long-winded) explaining the context of each scene. Title comes from Song of Solomon 1:10.
> 
> Specific warnings:
> 
> Part 6: Attempted noncon (or I guess arguably dubcon) between Matt and Typhoid Mary. Honestly it's not much more explicit than their early canonical interactions, but it's definitely noncon. (Matt's okay.)
> 
> Part 7/7b: Deals with Karen's canon death (off page) and Matt's grief.
> 
> Part 8: Negotiated barebacking (everyone's been tested).
> 
> Part 10: Deals with Foggy's cancer.

0.

Matt first learned about it secondhand, from an overheard conversation about a dirty magazine.

"I swear," Stymie says to the other guys. Matt's doing his homework at the next table; he's not exactly the most popular boy in the seventh grade, thanks to his dad's insistence on him studying all the time, but at least his grades are good. Stymie's got the hushed, satisfied tone to his voice that tells Matt this is probably something worth listening in on, though. "I found it under my brother's mattress."

"Why'dn't you bring it, then?"

"You think I want to get caught with that here?" Stymie scoffs. "You know what my dad'll do to me if I get detention again? Plus what my _brother'll_ do if I take something from his stash."

"We've all seen titties before," Joey says, with so much bravado in his tone that Matt's pretty sure he hasn't, in fact, seen titties before. Not that Matt has, either, despite occasionally checking the pixelated channels when his dad's out late at a match.

"This one was _really_ dirty," Stymie assures them, a man of the world. "There was this chick on her knees."

"So?"

"So she was wearing a _collar_ ," Stymie says. "Like a _dog_."

There's silence, and Matt almost makes the mistake of turning around to look at them, he's so confused.

"Weird," Joe says. "Why'd she do that?"

"Because he _made_ her," Stymie says, sounding impatient. "There's a guy in the picture holding the other end of the leash, and he's gonna. You know. _Do_ stuff to her."

"Like teach her to play fetch?" Tim asks, and they all laugh.

"You guys don't know anything. It was hot," Stymie says, sounding a bit deflated now that his big story's gone over like a lead balloon. "You'd know if you'd seen it."

"Whatever, Stymie."

Matt shakes his head and focuses back on his word problem. He can't quite get invested in the speed of trains on opposite tracks, though; he can't shake the image out of his mind. A naked woman on her knees in a dog collar? It just kind of sounds weird. Why would a guy want a woman to do that? Why would the _woman_ want to? The collar's probably uncomfortable, cool and tight and impossible to ignore...

Matt swallows hard, his hand going up to touch his throat. He's warm, and for a minute there, he felt a little choked. It made his stomach go all funny.

Whatever. Stymie's probably making it up anyway.

Matt bends his head over his homework and concentrates on his math again. If he finishes now, he can go watch his dad train tonight. That's better than listening to stupid Stymie's made-up stories any day.

*

1.

Elektra is the deadliest person Matt has ever fought, aside from maybe Stick. But Stick was careful, even when he was leaving Matt black and blue from dropping him on his ass fifty times a day. Stick was _teaching_ Matt. He wanted Matt alive, and he knew just how close to that edge he could take him without dropping him off it.

Elektra has no such caution. Elektra is reckless. Elektra assumes Matt will take care of himself. Elektra lands blows _hard_ and doesn't mind drawing blood, and the words "fair fight" mean nothing to her.

It's _wonderful_.

They spar in dark corners, on rooftops, breaking into the gym when it's late at night and there's no one to see, when Elektra can slip past her bodyguard and be with Matt. They fight until they're bruised and aching and their hearts are pounding fast. Then they slip past the bodyguard again into Elektra's private room - Elektra's room, because Foggy's asleep back in Matt's - and Matt can hear their hearts start to pound even faster.

Tonight they didn't manage to make it to the bed; they barely managed the condom. He's in her desk chair, pants tangled around his ankles, and she's riding him, as fierce and joyously as she fights. He's doing his best to help her, hands on her hips, thrusting up as she comes down, but she's so hot and tight around him and the pain when she pushes down on his shoulder, the shoulder she wrenched with a beautifully-executed throw an hour ago, is so exquisite that he thinks he's about to lose his damn mind.

"Elektra, Elektra," he breathes into her neck. She grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back, _hard_ , and he really _does_ lose his mind.

At least, that's the only explanation he can think of later for why he gasps and swears and then says, "Hit me."

She stills, and he makes a frustrated noise and pushes _up_. She lets out a breathy, happy sound, but doesn't move. "What?"

"My face, my...anywhere," he says. "I want...please...just..." He doesn't even know what he wants, not really, but _oh_ , does he want it desperately.

And Elektra is reckless. Elektra assumes Matt will take care of himself.

Elektra rears back and slaps him across the face.

It hurts, it _stings_ , and it's _perfect_ , and Matt growls low and grabs her hips again and hauls her down as he rocks _up_. Elektra moans and sinks her hands back in his hair, twisting _hard_ , riding him faster and faster, like it's a race she's determined to win. Like it's a fight. And there's nothing Matt loves more than fighting with Elektra, even when he loses. Maybe _especially_ when he loses.

And he loses now, because Elektra, brilliant Elektra, manages to slap him again, right on his already stinging cheek, and Matt muffles his cry against her shoulder as he fills the condom. He's shaking beneath her, floating so high he can't feel the chair beneath him, can't feel anything but her. She reaches down to finish herself off and he thinks dimly, guiltily, that he should be helping, but neither his arms nor his brain will cooperate.

When she's done shuddering and clenching around him, she tilts his face towards hers, and she's as gentle as she was sharp before. "Well," she says. He thinks, as he always does, that the musical lilt of her accent is the most beautiful sound in the world. And he should know. "That was interesting."

"I...I..." He's ashamed, vaguely, as he comes back down, and she must know, because she kisses his reddened cheekbone and presses her forehead to his temple.

"Oh, Matthew," she says, and the amusement in her voice is wicked. "We're going to have such _fun_ with that."

*

_1b._

_"Hey, buddy. Have you eaten today?"_

_Matt blinks, bleary-eyed. It takes a moment for his senses to place the scene: his fingers, desensitized from hours of scanning the pages in front of him. His back, stiff and aching from being hunched over his desk. Foggy standing next to him, a hand on the back of Matt's chair._

_Foggy snuck up on him. How is that possible? Matt can hear Foggy coming from blocks away. Matt always knows where Foggy is._

_"...What?" Matt asks, because he's forgotten the question._

_"Have you eaten today?" Foggy says again._

_"We had lunch at Tom's," Matt says, confused._

_"That was yesterday, Matt," Foggy says. His voice is very gentle, and Matt rankles a little. He doesn't_ need _"gentle." Foggy has no idea how much Matt can take. "You've been working all night, and most of the morning. Lunch was almost twenty-four hours ago."_

_"Did the light bother you?" Matt asks, a little sharp. What's Foggy's point, here?_

_"The light's off," Foggy says, and that earns another blink of confusion, because Matt_ knows _when lights are on, he can smell the burning filaments and feel the heat._

_"Okay," Matt says, because maybe if he agrees with whatever it is Foggy is getting at, Foggy will leave him alone. "I've still got a couple of chapters to read, so..."_

_"Matt, you need to eat," Foggy says. "And probably sleep, too, but baby steps." He puts something down on the desk. "I made you a sandwich."_

_"I'm not hungry," Matt says automatically._

_"Eat anyway." It's not an order, not exactly, but it's firm. "Listen, buddy, I know it's been hard with Elektra going back to Greece and all, but - "_

_Matt hisses like Foggy dug his thumb into one of his bruises. He's still speckled with them, gifts from the terrorists who killed Elektra's father. From the terrorists he couldn't stop, not until it was too late. "I'm_ fine _," he snaps._

_"Okay," Foggy says easily. "Eat the sandwich anyway. It's got that gross organic peanut butter you like on it, so if you don't eat it it'll just go to waste. You know I'm a Skippy man."_

_Matt breathes in. Yes, it's organic peanut butter. And the fancy strawberry jam from Milano Market, and the homemade bread from the farmer's market that he likes. It's the most expensive peanut butter and jelly sandwich he's ever been made._

_"I have a lot of studying to do," he protests, but even he knows it's a weak sound._

_"No problem," Foggy says cheerfully. He picks up Matt's left hand and puts half the sandwich in it - a triangle, Foggy cut it into triangles for him - and places the fingers of Matt's right hand back on his book. "The amazing multitasking Matt Murdock! He eats, he reads, he broods!"_

_"I'm not_ brooding _," Matt says. He's not. That's the whole_ point _. If he studies hard enough, he doesn't have to miss Elektra._

_But he takes a bite of the sandwich anyway. Just to make Foggy happy._

_"Hey, good boy," Foggy says, and ruffles Matt's hair. The back of Matt's neck prickles, not unpleasantly, and for a moment he wants to lean back into Foggy's touch, and maybe go to sleep._

_He straightens up instead, and takes another bite of the sandwich._

_"Hey, Matt?" Foggy says, and his voice is even gentler than it's already been. "It gets better, you know?"_

_Matt swallows the bite in his mouth with some difficulty past the lump in his throat. "What, this sandwich?" he asks. "Good, because this is_ awful _."_

_Foggy laughs and fluffs his hair in the wrong direction before heading back to his food stash. A minute later, Matt smells the unmistakable chemical saltiness of Skippy._

_He listens to Foggy putter through making a second sandwich while eating his own and reading through the rest of the chapter he's on. He's still not hungry, not really. He's not sure when he'll be hungry again._

_But he finishes every crumb anyway._

*

2\. 

There's something lazy about California, something slow and sun-warmed, even here in Hollywood where everyone's supposed to be hustling. Matt doesn't think he'll ever get used to it - he's got a New Yorker's impatient rhythm thrumming through his veins - but it's nice for a vacation.

Especially here, in Karen's bed. Lazy waking past noon. Lazy touching. Lazy kisses, and the light floral scent of Karen's perfume, faded and mixed with sleep-sweat when he nuzzles behind her ears.

She laughs at the tickle of it and rolls him onto his back to rest against his chest. He likes the weight of her, the steady grounding warmth. He could have had this years ago; he could have had this every morning if he hadn't talked himself out of proposing, over and over. He could still have this, if he can talk her into accepting.

"I should get dressed," she says, but her heartbeat is still sleepy and calm. She's just talking to talk. "There's a lunch thing my agent wants me to go to, a benefit thing."

"Skip it," Matt says, combing his fingers through her hair and smiling at the way the silken strands fall from them, soft and smooth. He likes the way she's wearing her hair now.

"I skipped last night's too," she says, and there's a smile in her voice - as there should be, Matt put in some of his best efforts last night - but a little worry, too. She's serious about these parties. She's serious about her career.

Matt's serious about his, too. And his career is back in New York, with Foggy, and Nelson and Murdock, and a townhouse big enough for two, if Karen will just say yes. But he's not going to hold her down.

"And didn't I make it worth your while?" he asks, and kisses her. She smiles against his mouth before relaxing into the kiss, resting her weight on him. But when he pushes up as if to move, she shifts, letting him go.

He subsides back against the mattress. He doesn't actually want her to move.

"Well...maybe I'll stay," she says, her fingers light as they trail up against his bare side. Her palm comes to rest curling over his shoulder, and he tests her grip again. She moves with him, offering no resistance to _his_ resistance. Sweet, lovely, accommodating Karen.

He wraps his hand around her wrist, thumb stroking her pulse point. "Karen...darling..." he says, and she hums a listening sound. "Have you ever...do you ever want to..."

_Hold me down_ , he wants to say. _Take what you want from me. Don't let me get away._

But sweet Karen will never push. Karen will never hold him down. And he won't hold her down, either.

"Never mind," he says, and takes his time kissing her, fingers in that silky hair. He'll have to let her go, soon enough. But this is California, and there's no need to rush.

*

3.

Natasha makes him beg.

"Please." His voice is deafeningly loud in his own head. It's the only thing he can hear, besides his racing heart and the creak of his bindings as they flex.

And Natasha, he can hear Natasha: the soft pad of her bare feet on the floor as she circles him, admiring her work. The whisper of her hair against her naked back. Her breathing and her heartbeat, both elevated.

And her voice, rich and throaty like a full-bodied wine when she says, "Please what, Matt?"

"Touch me." He arches towards her, as much as he can. It's not far. He's twisted in the cable of his own billy club, and he knows better than anyone how strong it is. How _long_ it is, long enough to keep him suspended from the parallel bars of their basement gym, wrists bound tight above his head, spiraling down, down. Pinning the hooked half to his spine so that he's forced to keep it ramrod straight; locking the straight half behind his ankles so he can't close or spread his legs more than hip-width.

He could get out of it, maybe, left to his own devices and with enough time. Natasha won't give him either.

He's never been so hard in his life.

"Touch you where, Matt?" She's amused. Amused and turned on, she's so wet for him, he can _smell_ it and it's driving him crazy. "Here?" The skate of her fingers down his chest, suddenly pushing into his solar plexus hard enough to make him gasp. "Or here?" Nails against his carotid artery. "Or here?" A thumb against his Adam's apple, just enough pressure to make him try to lean away. All his most vulnerable spots, because Natasha knows how to kill, and she's made him helpless.

" _Yes_ ," he begs. He doesn't care if she kills him as long as she does it with those _hands_. "Please, 'Tasha, please, please, please..."

She leans up to kiss his jaw, and his scattered, shattered radar sense can just barely make out her petite form, pushing up on her toes, elegant as a dancer. "Oh, Matt," she murmurs, and lets him feel the sharpness of her teeth. He sobs. "Look how beautiful you are for me right now."

"'Tasha," he whimpers. "Please." They're the only words he has left, the only words as her hand slides down his chest, down his belly, torturously slow. Fingers dragging through his pubic hair and then they're _there_ , wrapping around him, stroking him, too much and never enough. Pumping once, twice, and he's almost there - 

\- and she's stepping away, no, _no_ , he was almost _there_. "Please," he begs, and her warmth is back, her cordite and juniper scent is back, but not her touch, and that's what he needs. "'Tasha. _Please_."

"Trust me," she says, and he does, oh, he does, he's put his life in her brilliant hands. "I'll let you get off, Matt. I'll let you come, and you'll be _beautiful_." Her lips at his ear. He aches for her. "But not yet."

And all he can do is wait.

* 

4.

The best thing about Heather is that she's game for anything.

"You want me to what?" she'd said when he'd stumbled through a half-articulated request. But there was no judgment in it, no revulsion. With Heather, there's no shame, and her laugh is never mocking.

"All right," she said, and he heard the ice in her glass clink gently. "I think I can do that."

Now he's on his back in her too-soft bed and she's got a knee on either side of his head. The smell of her is overwhelming; the taste even more so, overpowering the rum and Cokes they drank before. He probably drinks too much when he's with her, but everything's fun with Heather. Heather's game for anything.

"Oh, yes, fuck, Matt, right there," she says as he licks her open, as he smooths his hands up her thighs. "I mean - I mean _bad_ , such a bad boy, Matt. _Fuck_." His skin prickles with interest. _Bad._ How bad, Heather?

He teases her clit with his tongue and senses her grabbing the headboard, hears the creak of the wood. It's faint; the bed's heavy and expensive. The sheets are expensive. _Heather's_ expensive.

"Matt!" she gasps. "Oh, naughty, naughty, _bad_ boy." Her thighs press against his ears; he's pinned in place by her weight. He can taste her, he can smell her, his radar sense knows exactly where she is. He's tipsy, but he's not flying.

"Ohhh, _Matt_ ," she purrs as he drags his tongue over her, again and again, and she grinds down a little, messy and suffocating. "Bad, bad, _bad_." There's laughter in her voice, but not at him. Her laugh is never mocking. There's no shame.

Heather would never shame him, but she can't push him past the shame, either. She can't make him fly.

He groans, aroused and frustrated in equal measure, and hears her pulse skyrocket as she comes. "Oh, Matt," she sighs and slides off him. When she bends down to kiss him it's wet and messy and everything still tastes like her. "I know I said you were a bad boy, but that was _really_ good."

"Happy to please," he says, and his smile is genuine. He reaches for the condom on the nightstand and Heather makes an approving noise as he rolls her onto her back. When he sinks into her she laughs, joyous, and he forgets his disappointment.

Everything is fun with Heather and nothing is ever anything more. But sometimes that's no bad thing.

*

_4b._

_"Oh, so you're back."_

_Foggy's voice isn't even angry; it's just tired. Matt stands in the door of the office, hands around his cane, his useless cane._

_"Where were you this time?" Foggy asks. "No, you know what, it doesn't matter. Forget it. You missed another court date, by the way."_

_Shit. Matt had thought that was tomorrow. "Did we win?"_

_Foggy's laugh is hollow. "Yeah. I've gotten pretty good at handling things alone."_

_Matt twists the cane in his hands. His briefcase is heavy, hanging from his shoulder, and he wants to put it down, but he can't move, trapped by Foggy's gaze, the gaze he can't see. "I'm sorry."_

_"That doesn't count for a whole lot these days, Matt," Foggy says. "You're always sorry. You never change." Matt can sense him shaking his head. "I mean, Christ, Matt - what are you even_ doing _when you go away?"_

_Matt's sick with shame. He wants to tell him._ I'm doing important things. I'm a hero. I'm so much more than you think I am, and so much less.

_But instead he clutches his cane, his prop, tighter, and lets Foggy give him what he deserves. "I don't mean to let you down, Foggy."_ You'd be so proud if you knew, Foggy. You'd be so ashamed.

_"Well, you did," Foggy says. Matt wishes he would yell, but he just sighs and heads for his desk. "Get back to work, Matt. There's a lot piled up."_

I'll be better for you, Foggy. Someday I'll be better for you, I swear.

_Matt gets back to work._

*

5\. 

The bed he shares with Karen is one of the least comfortable places Matt’s ever slept, after the alley from that night he can barely remember. The mattress is thin enough that he can feel the crossbars of the metal frame pressing into his vertebrae, and it’s a twin, so they’re forced to sleep twisted around each other.

But it’s _Karen_ he’s twisted around. He never wants to sleep anywhere else.

She’s talking in her sleep right now. She does that sometimes, whispers and pleads and cries. He soothes her until she stills, or wakes her when it gets too bad.

It’s fair. He cries in his sleep too, sometimes, and then it’s her turn to hold him. She never says anything, but he can feel the saline crusted on his cheeks when he wakes.

They’ve both been through a lot.

This is soft whimpering, no shaking or tears, so he rubs her back and whispers “Shhhh” in hopes that his voice will soothe her.

“Foggy,” she says, and his hands stills on her back.

“It’s Matt,” he says, voice low so as not to startle her. “Karen, it’s me, it’s Matt.”

She burrows closer to him, face pressed into his collarbone. “Foggy, I’m so sorry...Foggy, Foggy, where’s Matt?”

“I’m _here_ , Karen, I’m right here, darling,” he says, and feels the furrow in her brow ease slightly. A moment later her breathing drops into the steady cadence of deep sleep. She’s past the worst of it.

_Foggy._

He’s not worried for a second that she might be in love with Foggy. He used to be afraid of that, back when he was a little bit younger and a lot stupider. Karen loves Foggy, adores him, but she’s in love with _Matt_. She wants to be with _Matt_.

No, what Matt’s worried about is that Karen might be right to be _sorry_.

He pushes the thought away the minute it crosses his mind. Why should Karen be sorry? Why should either of them be? They’ve clawed their way through so much and made it out the other side...and meanwhile Foggy is raking in what must be a truly enormous salary defending _criminals_. Working for _Fisk_.

Sleeping with Glori.

No. That’s not why he’s angry. Glori left him before she and Foggy started dating - he thinks, he lost some time in there, some memories he doesn’t want to drag back out again - and she and Matt were never that serious anyway. Besides, he’s with Karen now. He _loves_ Karen.

No, it’s Foggy turning his back on everything Nelson and Murdock ever was, everything they dreamed about when they were giddy college students planning their futures together, every ideal he ever _promised_ Matt they shared, that makes anger rise in his throat whenever he thinks of his former partner.

_...the last time he spoke to Foggy in the flesh, when Foggy had spent hours fighting for Matt’s legal license, fighting for_ Matt _, when he’d hugged Foggy and held on for as long as he wanted just this once, the only solid thing in his life…_

But Foggy’s on the other side now, fighting for the rights of corporations to dump toxic waste where children used to be able to swim safely, and Matt’s done with him.

And Glori.

He’s _not_ jealous.

What are they even _like_ together? Bland, probably. Glori’s so sweet, and Foggy’s so accommodating. They probably make polite love and fall politely asleep in their polite bed.

Although.

_How_ accommodating is Foggy? He’s never shared the details of his sex life with Matt, and Matt always tried to tune it out the few times Foggy had a girl over when they shared an apartment in law school, but, well...Foggy was hardly a ladies’ man, but one thing that came through loud and clear despite Matt’s best efforts was that Foggy was always very eager to please. Eager to and capable _of_.

It’s too easy to imagine, Foggy’s head between Glori’s thighs as she gasps and shivers. Does she yank on his hair? Does she push up, tighten her legs around him until he can barely breathe? Does he _let_ her?

Or no - Glori was never aggressive in bed with _Matt_ , enthusiastic but never demanding. Is it the other way around, then? Foggy’s so genial, so apparently harmless that most people don’t bother to see the core of steel that runs through him until they wreck themselves on it. Does it come out in bed? Do his hands wrap around her delicate wrists, the ones that always smell faintly of marigolds? Does he make her beg for it?

Matt shifts, the ridges of the bedframe uncomfortable beneath him. Foggy’s patient, so much more patient than Matt. He could outwait Glori, hold her in place until she whimpered _please, please, please_. He wouldn’t even have to hold her firmly. She’d want to stay.

_Matt_ would want to stay.

He recoils at the thought so hard Karen makes a faint noise and shifts against him. _Karen_ \- he’s with Karen now. He _loves_ Karen. He’ll always choose Karen. He and Glori are over, and he and Foggy aren’t even _friends_ anymore, much less...

No. He’s not thinking about it anymore. So what if he sometimes wondered, here and there over the years? He and Foggy are through, and he has the love of his life in his arms, trusting him to be true, body and soul.

He presses his face into Karen’s hair and concentrates on slowing his heart enough to sleep. It’s still a long ways till morning.

*

6.

Fever. Matt staggers, tries to catch his balance. His inner ears are clogged and his equilibrium’s out of whack - he’s sick. He’s sick, he’s got a fever, he’s _burning up_ \- 

He wants more.

“No,” he says. Squares his shoulders. Faces Typhoid, or at least he thinks he does. Why can’t he get a bead on her? “I’m taking you in.”

She laughs, flickering in and out of his radar sense, hazy and undefined. Her laugh seems to come from everywhere. “Oh, honey. I think I’m taking _you_.”

Something flies at his head - something, cold metal, sharp, _shit_ , a _knife_ , and he ducks just in time. He turns the movement into a charge, tackling her to the filthy asphalt in the alley, reeking of vomit and blood.

Her head cracks against the ground and she _laughs_. “So we’re skipping the foreplay then, babe?” she asks, thighs coming up to cradle him, tightening around him.

He struggles against the urge to flee, the urge to get closer. “I don’t _want_ you,” he grits. It’s true. He’s _repulsed_ by her. He wants Karen, and - God forgive him - sweet Mary with her soft voice and gentle hands - but not Typhoid. Never Typhoid.

It’s also a lie. He’s so goddamn hard.

She twists, and - dammit, _dammit_ , she’s flipping them over and what kind of shit hold was that, how did he let her get the upper hand?

“I think you do,” she says as his shoulder blades hit the ground hard. He can feel the asphalt through his suit, the rough scrape of it digging into his skin. He hates the smell of her. “Beg me for it, baby.”

“No,” he says, as her hands close around his throat. “No...I don’t _want_ \- ”

They tighten, cutting him off; he can’t drag in a breath. He’s dizzy, floating, can’t feel the asphalt anymore and her hands will leave bruises, he’s sure.

He’s somehow, impossibly, harder.

He struggles, writhing beneath her, but she just laughs and moans. “Getting frisky, huh, baby? I knew you just wanted Typhoid to be in charge. I - ”

Something distracts her and she stills, loosening her hands enough to let air rush into Matt’s lungs. He gasps, wheezes, and then he hears it. How did someone else hear it before _him?_

Police sirens.

She’s up and off him then, flipping away, and it’s a struggle to get to his feet, let alone pursue. “Not on this date, then, lover. Next time.”

Matt sits on the cold ground, one hand on his aching throat as his senses stagger back to something approaching equilibrium. He has to figure out how to fight her, the next time he faces her. He can’t let her get ahold of him like that again.

He’s scared of what he might ask her for.

*

7.

He hears it.

The exact moment Karen’s heart stops.

*

_7b._

_“Matt? Matt, it’s time to get up.”_

_Matt rolls over to face the wall, but Foggy doesn’t go away. No, he comes into the bedroom and sits down on the edge of the bed, his hand warm and heavy on Matt’s back. “Come on, buddy. You need to eat something.”_

_Matt doesn’t answer, just stares into darkness. For the first time since he can remember, he can’t taste anything._

_Karen is dead._

_“I know it’s hard,” Foggy says. His voice is so gentle. Matt can’t bear it. “I do. But you need to get some food in you. I don’t think you’ve had anything in days.”_

_Has he? He can’t remember. He remembers picking Foggy up from jail and bringing him home, making sure all the charges against him were dropped and his legal license was clear, checking to make sure the scratches on his face were healing and that he hadn’t been hurt_ worse _in prison. A lot of cons were probably thrilled to get the former DA in the yard with them, but luckily Foggy hadn’t been there long enough to be more than terrorized, or at least that’s what he assured Matt._

_And then…_

_The rest is a blur. It’s like as soon as he knew Foggy didn’t need to be taken care of anymore, he was able to switch everything off._

_It’s Foggy’s turn now, apparently._

_“Come on, champ. Up and at ‘em.” Foggy rubs his back through the blanket. “You don’t want to talk, you don’t have to talk. But you need to eat.”_

_Matt doesn’t move._

_“Matt._ I _need you to eat.” There’s a faint hint of saline in the air, but Foggy’s voice doesn’t waver with his tears. It’s rock steady. “Karen would want you to eat.”_

_Matt wants to hit him then, a sudden, violent impulse that makes his fingers twitch into fists._

__“Matt.” __

_Instead, he gives in to the other impulse that quiet, unshakeable command rouses in him. He sits up and lets the bedclothes fall off of him._

_“Good boy,” Foggy says, and Matt follows the praise._

_Foggy leads him into the bathroom. “Brush your teeth. Your mouth must taste like a dumpster right now.” Matt brushes his teeth. “Good boy.”_

_Then to the kitchen, where Foggy pushes him into a chair. “Coffee. And I made you something easy, since your stomach probably can’t handle anything rich right now after all those skipped meals. Oatmeal.” Matt smells cinnamon and brown sugar, applied with a much lighter hand than Foggy usually uses - the way Matt likes it. Foggy made it special for Matt._

_Matt sits there uselessly. He can’t bring himself to start._

_Foggy lets out a tiny, aborted sigh, and picks up the spoon. “Okay. Baby steps. Open up.” Matt does, numbly, automatically, and lets Foggy feed him a bite. “Good.”_

_Another bite. Karen is dead, but the oatmeal is good. “Good_ boy _.”_

_Foggy feeds him the whole bowl in small, sweet bites, and then picks up the coffee and helps Matt with it, careful sips until it’s gone. When Matt’s done, Foggy stands and runs a hand through Matt’s hair before taking the dishes to the sink._

_Then he stands there, shifting his weight uncertainly, before finally blurting it out: “I’m sorry, Matt, but you stink. Isn’t it bothering you?” Matt honestly hadn’t noticed. “You feel up to taking a shower, buddy?”_

_The idea of a shower - loud, overwhelming, disrupting what little of his radar sense is working - must show on his face, because Foggy sighs again, and touches Matt’s elbow lightly to indicate that he should stand. “Okay, buddy. Bath it is. What the hell, it’s not like we haven’t been through everything else together, right?”_

_Matt thinks, dimly, as he sits naked in the tub with Foggy carefully sluicing water over his shoulders, that he should feel embarrassed right now. He doesn’t - he just feels warm and wet and a little floaty, a feeling like drifting off to sleep but never quite reaching it. “Close your eyes,” Foggy says, and tips Matt’s head back to pour water through his hair. “Good boy.”_

_Karen is dead, but the water is warm._

_When he’s done, Foggy drains the tub and dries Matt off. The towel is too coarse, but it’s good - the roughness wakes up Matt’s skin in a way he hasn’t felt in days._

_Foggy leads Matt to the bedroom to dress him - soft sweatpants, worn t-shirt, at least he’s not making Matt go outside - but he doesn’t let Matt crawl back into bed. Instead, he pulls him into the living room and pushes him gently down to sit on the couch._

_“You can go back to sleep in a bit,” Foggy says. “Let’s find a movie to watch, okay? I’ll narrate.”_

_He joins Matt on the couch and Matt hears the scattershot sound of channel surfing until Foggy settles on something - something old, from the brassy timbre of Katharine Hepburn’s voice coming from the speakers. There’s a lot of dialogue, but Foggy fills in the gaps with description: “She just pushed him.” “He’s leaving the room.” “That was the most withering glare I’ve ever seen. I want to use that in court.”_

_Matt sinks into the sound: the TV, Foggy’s voice, and beneath it all, the steady beat of Foggy’s heart. Living - living sounds very hard right now. But this, letting Foggy make all the decisions, letting Foggy tell him what to do, and when, and how...that Matt can do._

_Karen is dead, but Foggy is still here._

_Matt shifts on the couch, lies down until his head is cushioned on the softness of Foggy’s thigh. Foggy pauses for a split second in his narrative, then resumes, his hand stroking Matt’s hair. It feels nice. It feels like_ good boy _._

_Matt’s not okay, but maybe someday he will be again._

*

8.

“ _Fuck!_ Holy fucking shit, _fuck!_ ”

Luke chuckles, a low rumble that reverberates through every inch of Matt. “You got a mouth on you, don’t you, Murdock?”

“What, did you forget about it already, Luke?” Danny asks from behind Matt - breathless, but still audibly amused.

“Not likely,” Luke snorts. “That part was _very_ memorable.”

Matt gasps, digs his nails into Luke’s skin for purchase - not that it does a blessed thing - and presses his forehead into Luke’s broad chest. Any other time he’d be doing his best to keep up with the banter - but most other times he’s not sprawled on top of Luke Cage, held in place by his effortless grip while Danny Rand fucks the living daylights out of him.

He doesn’t date, really, not anymore. Not after Karen. But he still has needs, and so when he and Luke and Danny finished mopping up a little nest of Hydra burrowed into a warehouse on the river, right on the border of Hell’s Kitchen and the Upper West Side, they’d gone out for a few beers afterwards, and one thing had led to another, and…

Well, somehow they ended up back at Danny’s penthouse. Matt wasn’t surprised to learn that Luke and Danny were sleeping together, off and on. He’d smelled them on each other for years. He wasn’t hugely surprised when they asked him to join in, either. Attraction was one of the easiest things for his senses to pick up, after fear.

The only surprise, really, was how quickly they seemed to figure out exactly what he wanted, when Matt still can’t bring himself to say it out loud.

So now he’s pinned in place on Danny’s absolutely _enormous_ bed, pressed up against the warm hard bulk of Luke’s body, ass in the air while Danny pounds into it. Luke’s got one hand around Matt’s wrists, the other slung over his ribcage...and the biggest dick Matt’s ever felt butting up against his stomach, leaving a smear of precome on his skin every time they touch. They’re bare, Luke and Danny both, the one thing Matt was able to bring himself to ask. He wants to feel all of this.

Luke shifts beneath him, thumb stroking his ribs. “How’s he feel, Dan?”

“Gods, Luke, he’s so tight,” Danny breathes, his rhythm not faltering a bit, and Matt tries to raise his ass a little bit more, tries to get enough leverage to push back in thanks for the praise. “Fuck, he wants it so bad.”

“Fuck, _fuck_ , yes.” Matt mouths wetly at Luke’s chest, tasting that familiar scent of him, like sunwarmed metal and cheap diner coffee. It feels like Danny’s been fucking him for _hours_ , like he’s dredged up some mystical training from K’un Lun on having stamina far beyond mortal men. And Matt can’t move an inch in this position, not with Luke holding him like this. His back is stiff from arching it for so long; his knees ache; his jaw throbs from trying to fit them both in his mouth before.

He fucking _loves_ it.

Nothing’s ever held him down so effectively, and Luke’s not even _trying_. Matt’s prison is warm and breathing and smells good, and the heartbeat beneath his lips is a steel drum that sets his own blood boiling. He can hear Danny’s heart racing in counterpoint, the slick sounds of his dick moving inside Matt, the ragged edge of his breathing as he slowly, slowly loses his composure. Danny’s not as strong as Luke, not by any measure, but his fingers are still going to leave bruises on Matt’s hips.

And there’s absolutely nothing Matt can do but take it. He doesn’t have to fight; he doesn’t have to make any decisions. All he can do is lie there and get _used_. It’s liberating; it’s intoxicating. He feels sensitive and shaky and _full_ , and even the throbbing of his own cock, neglected from the minute Luke pushed him onto his knees, is a minor concern next to how good he feels right now.

He rubs his cheek against Luke’s chest, fingers curled into useless claws. “You okay, Murdock?” Luke asks.

Matt nods shakily, then gasps as Danny thrusts harder, starting to chase his orgasm. “Y-yeah. Yeah, it’s good. I...oh, _fuck_ , don’t stop.”

He feels Luke’s heartbeat skip and his hips judder up. Luke likes begging, his scattered mind manages to think. Good to know. “Hey, Dan, give our buddy here a reach-around, would ya?”

“No!” Matt says, too loud, too desperate. “No, I. I want to last.” How does he say he doesn’t want this to be about _him?_ He’ll come untouched if they keep this up long enough, he knows that, but this should be his friends taking their pleasure from _him_ , not the other way around.

“All right,” Luke says. “Then just go ahead and come in his ass whenever you feel like it, buddy.”

Matt groans low at that, and Danny chuckles and squeezes his hips. “Thanks… _hh_...for the advice, Luke. I _do_ actually know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, I know you do,” Luke says, so much affection in his voice that for a split second, even pinned beneath their bodies, Matt feels lonely.

Luke must _know_ , somehow, or maybe he just likes the way Matt looks on top of him and halfway to fucked out, because he presses a kiss to the top of Matt’s head that nearly undoes him. Matt shuts his eyes tight, swallows hard, and lifts his ass incrementally higher, clenching the next time Danny thrusts home. “Come...come on, Rand, is… _fuck_...is that all you got?”

He loves the way it feels to ride out Luke’s big belly laugh beneath him, the way Danny snorts and says, “All right, but you asked for it” - and then he’s fucking into Matt hard and fast, and Matt’s mouth falls open as Luke’s grip tightens fractionally, and if Matt thought he was pinned before, he had no _idea_. He’s just along for the ride, now, as Danny takes everything he wants from Matt, Luke murmuring encouragement.

“That’s right, baby, fuck his ass...shit, Dan, you two look so good together.” The words rumble out of Luke’s chest and straight into Matt’s heart. “Fuck him good for me, Danny.”

Matt can’t hold the noises in anymore, little wordless cries muffled against Luke’s skin. He can feel Danny’s rhythm faltering hard now, short deep thrusts as he gets closer.

“Ah!” Danny gasps. “Luke, I can’t...fuck, Matt, _Matt_ …” and suddenly he’s coming hot in Matt’s ass and Matt buries his long, drawn-out moan in Luke’s sternum, feeling every twitch of Danny’s cock like it’s a live wire.

“Jesus,” Luke breathes, and changes his grip on Matt so that he can pet him rather than pin him. “Lord in heaven that was a glorious sight.”

Matt wants to make a joke about the blasphemy, but he can’t quite bring himself to speak, or move. He can feel Danny softening in him, hunched over his back as his breathing slows.

“Heart of the fucking _dragon_ , Matt,” Danny says finally, and pulls out. He’s careful, but Matt still winces; he feels open and _used_ , a trickle of come dripping down his balls. Danny gives him a gentle, friendly pat on the flank and flops down on the bed next to Luke, who leans over to kiss him.

“Have fun?” Luke asks.

“A plus, would recommend,” Danny replies, and leans up to kiss Matt, too, who’s too overcome to do more than just let him. Danny tastes like green tea and Reese Pieces.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Luke says, and reaches down to grab a handful of Matt’s ass in a playful squeeze. “Hope you’ve got some more gas in the tank, Murdock, because it’s my turn now.”

Matt’s dick twitches.

*

9.

There are things Milla understands about him better than anyone he’s ever met. His dedication to Hell’s Kitchen. The petty annoyances of living in a world full of thoughtless sighted people. The beauty and solace he finds, sometimes, in absolute stillness, their breathing out of sync the only sounds he lets himself hear.

And there are so, so many things she’ll never understand.

“Why do you do it, Matt?” she asks, when he’s crawling through their bedroom window, blood streaming from a cut high on his temple. “I know you say it’s to help the city, but there are other ways to do that. You _know_ there are other ways. Why do you pick the most violent one?”

It’s so similar to what Karen asked so long ago, and Foggy, too, when he first found out. They asked and asked and eventually gave up asking, because eventually they saw - or made their peace with - what Matt’s father would be so ashamed to know: that Matt’s not made like other people. That violence sings in his blood; that fighting is the only way he knows how to go through this world. He fights unless he’s made to take it - and Milla doesn’t understand that either.

“You want me to what?” she asks, the one time he manages to vocalize a half-coherent request, manages it only because she can’t see how deep he’s flushing. She can’t see how badly he wants it.

“Hit me,” he says again, low and embarrassed, and he’s a fumbling teenager again. “My face, my...anywhere.”

She pulls back. “I’m not going to _hit_ you, Matt! I _love_ you!”

“I know,” he says, taking her hand. “That’s why I want you to do it. I trust you.” How can he explain to her the way every impact is a bright moment of perfect clarity where he’s not anywhere else, where his senses are drawn back into his body to be here, focused totally on her? How can he explain to her how much he needs it?

“Matt.” Her other hand on his cheek is so very gentle. “There’s so much violence in your life. Why would you want to bring it into the bedroom? It doesn’t have to be that way.”

He knows that - of course he knows. He’s gone so long without mixing this thing, this thing he craves so desperately, and love.

But in her quiet way, Milla is as stubborn as he is, and he’d never want to make her do anything she didn’t want to do.

“Never mind,” he says, and kisses her. “You’re right. Forget I said anything.”

Later, when it’s all gone wrong, he thinks that even though he ruined her life, he never made her do _that_. It’s cold comfort.

*

10.

Foggy’s asleep.

Matt takes a breath and concentrates. Take out the noise in the streets outside, the cabs and the rattle of bike chains and the people shouting. Take out the wind in the trees and the birds and the rats and the horseshoes clacking against asphalt through the park. Take out the hum of electricity and the clatter of the subway and the buzz of radios. Peel back the sounds of the hospital, the murmuring and the crying and the beep of machinery and the burble of IVs and the gurneys and the phones and the lights, until there’s one thing left. One _person_ left.

Foggy’s breathing. Foggy’s mattress creaking as he shifts. Foggy’s heartbeat.

_Matt’s_ heartbeat, fading with him.

Matt hates it here, in this hardbacked chair with its rough cushion, the stink of the chemo assaulting his nostrils, but he can’t leave. He doesn’t _want_ to leave. If he could, he’d crawl into the bed next to Foggy, get as close as he could to help Foggy’s faint heartbeat drown out the rest of the world. But Foggy needs his rest, and Matt’s not about to disturb him. God knows he’s caused Foggy enough sleepless nights already.

What will he do without Foggy to leave a light on for him?

He’s focused his senses so tightly on Foggy that he misses the scent of approaching Yves Saint Laurent perfume until it’s almost upon him. Forcing his expression back into something approaching neutral, he straightens up in his chair.

“Hey there, counsellor.” Kirsten’s voice is soft, so as not to wake Foggy. “How’s he doing?”

“Asleep. What are you doing here?”

She tuts. “As if your nose couldn’t tell you.”

A clamshell plastic case in a paper bag; cream cheese and pecans, chocolate and caramel. Turtle cheesecake from Junior’s. “You shouldn’t sneak him food.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” she scoffs, and he knows she’s seen the crumpled up bag on Foggy’s nightstand, the remains of a contraband burger.

“That’s what I mean,” he says, and tilts his head up to accept her kiss. “One of us should be a good influence, and God knows it’s never been me.”

She puts the Junior’s bag down next to the empty burger back and perches on the arm of Matt’s chair, leaning her weight into him. He tips his head against her side. “How long have you been here?”

“I don’t want him to wake up alone.”

She gives a little _hm_ , a way of letting him know that she knows he’s evaded the question without actually calling him on it. “Torturing yourself won’t help him. You need to sleep, and eat, and work, and...other work.”

“Those can wait,” he says. “They’ll be there when Foggy…” His throat locks. “When Foggy gets better.”

“Yes,” she says, and he’s so profoundly grateful for it that he has to shut his eyes tight to keep the tears in.

She doesn’t say anything else for several long moments, and he works on filtering the city out again. He keeps her heartbeat this time; it’s a pleasant counterpoint to Foggy’s, awake and lapping his but just as homey.

“Are you ever going to tell him you love him?” she asks suddenly, and the city blares into Matt’s eardrums all at once.

“Ah!” he gasps as the cacophony hits like an icepick behind his eyes. He immediately pushes it back to a manageable level, but the damage has been done - he’s going to have a nagging headache for the rest of the day.

“You okay there, hotshot?” Kirsten asks, sounding amused.

“I’m...what are you talking about?” he asks, ignoring the second question in favor of the first. “Foggy knows I love him. I tell him all the time.” Not in so many words, maybe, but Foggy knows he’s Matt’s best friend. Foggy knows how much Matt needs him.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Kirsten says.

Matt opens his mouth, to...he’s not sure what. It’s not the first time people have assumed things about him and Foggy, or cracked jokes about it - hell, _Foggy’s_ cracked jokes about it. Normally Matt would deny it, but he’s so tired of lying to Kirsten about things she already knows are true...and he can’t bear to lie about Foggy right now, not when he’s so close to losing him.

So he dodges, because that’s always been what he’s best at. “You are aware that I’m dating _you_ , right?” he asks.

Her fingers comb through his hair. They’re warm and gentle, and he lets himself lean into the touch. “I’m capable of sharing,” she says. “I love him too, you know. Maybe not the way you do, but we can figure it out.”

“Objection,” he says weakly. “Prosecution assumes facts not in evidence.” That Foggy feels the same way. That he’d be willing to take a chance on someone as terrible at relationships as Matt even if he did.

That he’ll live.

“Oh, they’re in evidence,” she assures him. “Have been for as long as I’ve known you two. Probably longer. You haven’t introduced me to any of your long-time spandex pals yet, though, so I haven’t had the chance to snoop properly.” Her fingers comb through his hair again, this time smoothing it back down to where it was before. “Look, it’s up to you, Red, but between you and me and the cheesecake, I think you should tell him, and soon. You both deserve a little happiness.”

He makes himself tilt a smile up at her. “ _You_ make me happy.” It’s not a lie.

“Damn right I do.” She kisses his forehead. “You deserve a little more.”

*

+1.

“Ugh!” Kirsten puts the flat of her hands on Matt’s shoulder blades and steers him into the home office, where Foggy’s been sorting out their tax returns for the past hour. “Nelson, your partner is driving me crazy. _You_ deal with him. _I’m_ getting a pedicure.”

Foggy doesn’t look up from his papers. “Oh, sure, when he’s well behaved he’s _our_ partner, but when he’s being a pain in the ass he’s _my_ partner. I see how it is.”

Matt scowls. “I’m not a _child_.”

“I should hope not, considering _how_ I suspect Foggy’s going to deal with you,” Kirsten says. “See you later, boys. _You_.” She grips Matt’s chin in her hand and kisses him on the mouth. “Be good. And you.” She drops a kiss on the top of Foggy’s head. “Have fun.”

He pats her hand on his shoulder absently, still focused on his paperwork. “You know, I’d like a pedicure once in a while, too,” he calls as she heads out of the office.

“Next time, you and me. It’s a date,” she calls back, scooping her purse up off the coffee table, and then the front door slams.

“And then there were two.” Foggy flaps a hand at Matt. “Give me a second to translate this from IRS-ese into English and I’ll be right with you.”

“Don’t bother.” Matt’s still scowling. “Like I said, I’m not a child. I don’t need to be handled or entertained.”

At that, Foggy finally looks up. “Matt,” he says, and something shivery uncurls in Matt’s belly at his tone. “Go wait in the bedroom for me.”

Matt swallows. “Naked?”

“Would you like to be naked?”

Matt fights the _extremely_ childlike urge to stomp his foot. “Aren’t you supposed to be telling _me_ what to do?”

Foggy waits.

When Matt can’t bear the prickling weight of his gaze anymore, he drops his head. “Yes,” he admits. “I’d like to be. Please.”

“All right then,” Foggy says, as casually as if Matt had told him what kind of sandwich he wanted for lunch. “Naked it is.”

He turns back to the paper in his hand, so Matt leaves the office and heads to Foggy’s bedroom. He takes off everything he’s wearing and folds each article of clothing one by one, even his socks, leaving them in a neat pile on the well-loved armchair Foggy had insisted on carting from New York to San Francisco and back.

After a moment’s hesitation, he kneels in front of the bed. He knows Foggy will ask him where he wants to be; he might as well show him.

While he waits, he tries to meditate, to school his mind into calmness, but it doesn’t work. Part of it’s the same itch that drove him to pester Kirsten until she fled the house, the same itch that’s been growing under his skin for three days.

Part of it’s anticipation.

He gives up on trying for inner calm after a minute and focuses on Foggy in the other room. Foggy’s still sorting through all the byzantine tax documents a three-person household and business require, but his heartbeat’s slightly elevated, and he’s warmer than usual. Matt smiles. It’s good to know he’s not the only one affected by this.

It was Foggy who made the first move, in the end. He always was the braver of the two of them. Matt suspects Kirsten had a hand in it too, but neither of them have volunteered any information on what Kirsten may or may not have said to Foggy, and Matt hasn’t asked. He doesn’t want to trespass on the boundaries of their privacy, not when they’ve both given him so much.

Most days he feels absolutely selfish and spoiled. Kirsten and Foggy’s relationship isn’t romantic or sexual; they love each other, and Matt’s grateful for that every day, but they aren’t _interested_ in each other. Neither of them seems interested in being with anyone but Matt, actually, at least for now, and Matt is shamefully grateful for that, too. He’s never been any good at sharing, especially Foggy.

Despite Kirsten and Foggy’s best efforts, Matt still hasn’t gotten comfortable with happiness. He has no faith that this won’t all suddenly fall apart on him; he’s too familiar with the patterns of his own life.

But right now, he has a family.

Foggy suddenly stands up with a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan, and Matt quickly straightens his spine, pushing his shoulders back and lifting his chin. He doesn’t miss the way Foggy’s heartbeat speeds up when he comes into the room and sees Matt posed for him, or the way the scent of aroused pheromones starts to fill the room - but Foggy doesn’t say anything at first, just toes off his shoes and pushes them under the chair where Matt put his clothes, out of the way.

Matt keeps his spine straight and his mouth shut, even when Foggy loosens his collar and starts rolling up his sleeves - a familiar “getting to work” gesture that Matt has recently developed a Pavlovian boner-related response to. It’s becoming a problem at the office, actually.

It’s not until Foggy’s sitting on the edge of the bed in front of Matt that he speaks. “What’s wrong, Matty?”

“You’re not touching me,” Matt says.

“Would you like me to?”

Matt holds the silence for as long as he can bear. It’s not very long. “Yes, please.”

Foggy’s hand in his hair shouldn’t be such a relief, and yet the feeling saturates Matt’s entire body. He rests his head against Foggy’s thigh as Foggy pets him. “What’s wrong, Matty?” Foggy asks again.

Matt turns his forehead into the warmth of Foggy’s thigh, hiding his face as if that’ll even the playing field. Maybe it does - neither of them can see each other’s expressions, but Foggy can still read Matt as easily as Matt can sing along to the old familiar tune of Foggy’s heart. “You know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Foggy will wait until he does. Matt sighs into the weave of Foggy’s pants. “I should be out there.”

“You will be soon.”

“But I won’t be tonight, and I wasn’t last night, or the night before. And every night I’m not is another night someone else could be killed. Because I wasn’t there to stop them. Like I didn’t stop them there the other night.”

Matt presses his forehead harder against Foggy. This is is, this is why he’s been so cranky and fidgety and miserable. Three nights ago, he got clumsy while trying to stop a totally ordinary, commonplace bodega robbery. A bullet creased his skull; he managed to stop the robber anyway, but not before he’d gotten off a few wild shots. The cashier and two customers who’d been in the bodega at the time had paid the price for Matt’s mistakes.

After he took down the robber, Matt had dragged himself to the Night Nurse, who patched him up and put him on strict orders not to go out for the rest of the week. Normally a concussion wouldn’t have stopped him from fighting crime - but that was before he was living with the two people in the world most skilled at seeing through his bullshit.

“You can’t save everyone.” Foggy’s voice is so calm. So _sensible_. “You can’t be out every night, even uninjured. You’re only human, Matt. An exceptional human, but just as mortal as the rest of us.”

“I could have saved _them_ , though,” Matt points out, voice muffled.

“Or you could have been on the other side of town, and the guy would’ve gotten away. Or that bullet could have been an inch to the left and I would have lost you.” Foggy curls forward to kiss the top of Matt’s head. “It’s terrible that those people died, Matt. I’m not going to bullshit you on that. But they didn’t die because of something _you_ did. They didn’t die because of _you_. They died because of random bad luck, and an asshole with a gun. And _you_ stopped him from killing anyone _else_.”

Matt wants to argue, but he knows they’ll just go around in circles if he does, so instead he presses himself against Foggy’s thigh and concentrates on Foggy’s fingers in his hair.

Foggy lets him stay like that for a few long moments, then says, “What do you want?”

Matt pauses, and this time it’s not to be a shit. He’s searching for the answer he wants to give, because Foggy will wait until he gets one.

And this, this is the other thing that Matt is unfathomably lucky to have, the other thing he knows, deep in his bones, that he doesn’t deserve. Before he and Foggy started sleeping together, he’d asked Kirsten - actually dredged up his courage and _asked_ her, because Kirsten is nothing if not breathtakingly forthright about exactly what she wants in bed, and it made it easier for Matt to attempt the same.

Kirsten had said no.

Gently, apologetically, but no just the same. She didn’t feel comfortable with it; she didn’t trust herself not to hurt him. And Matt, who loved Kirsten - God, how he loves her - resigned himself to going without.

And then Foggy entered the picture, and Matt somehow worked up the courage to ask again.

Foggy, bless his methodical, practical heart, did _research_. _Weeks_ of it, during which Kirsten teased him mercilessly about becoming a porn addict - and yeah, there had been porn, Foggy’d watched it in private with headphones on but that had never kept Matt from knowing what he was getting off to.

But he’d also studied the parts of it Matt had never wanted to question: the psychological underpinnings; the various lifestyle philosophies; the available resources, both online and local. Consent. Safety. Aftercare.

And he’d said _yes_.

Foggy, Matt knows, is no one’s mental image of a typical dom, but Matt’s never felt more safe - or more thrilled - than in his hands. He’s game for everything Matt asks for.

But he does make Matt _ask_ , every time. And right now, Matt doesn’t know what he wants. His mind - or, really, his libido - feels pulled in a million directions: towards the sharp crack of Foggy’s worn leather belt across the back of his thighs, sun-bright in his mind. Or the tie Foggy discarded earlier today stretched across Matt’s mouth, muffling his whimpers, smelling of silk and the warm homey scent of Foggy’s neck. Or just Foggy’s _hands_ , dragging Matt closer and closer to the brink but never quite letting him fall, not until Matt’s _sobbing_ for it…

“I don’t…” He butts his head against Foggy’s thigh, already overwhelmed.

And Foggy saves him, like he always does. “Do you want choices?”

“Yes, please.” Choices are concrete, choices will narrow down the infinite sea of what Matt wants from Foggy into something he can answer.

“Do you want to be restrained?”

It’s been so hard, staying inside all week, playing it safe. Restraints would give him something to push against. “Yes, but…” Foggy waits. “Tied up, not down.” He’s too keyed up, too jangly to be pinned flat to the bed.

“We can do that. In fact…” Foggy stands up and takes his discarded tie from where he tossed it on top of the dresser, then squats behind Matt and ties his wrists together - firm, but not tightly enough to be uncomfortable unless they’re left that way a long time. Matt sinks into the fabric, the weight of at least one responsibility lifted off of him. “Give me a color, buddy.”

“I’m green.”

Foggy kisses the top of his head, then circles back around to Matt’s front, but he doesn’t sit back down. “Okay. Do you want to be spanked?”

Matt considers. He’s surprised to find out that he’s not really interested, not tonight; normally the steady pain of the blows helps his scattered focus, but the tie around his wrists has already brought him down to a more even keel. “You can if you want to.”

“Matt. Do _you_ want to be spanked?”

He should have known equivocating wouldn’t get him anywhere. “Not really.”

_That_ gets him a kiss on the mouth, which he leans forward to chase as Foggy pulls back. “Good boy. Thank you for telling me.”

As ridiculous as it is - he’s a _grown man_ with a _law degree_ , for crying out loud - Matt feels his cheeks warm at the praise. Foggy cups his jaw and strokes a thumb over his cheekbone, tilting his face up. “Do you know how pretty you are when you blush, Matt?”

“Haven’t had a chance to look in a mirror lately,” Matt says, aiming for dry and missing it by a country mile.

“Well, you are,” Foggy assures him. “You’re so pale that the color just comes right up. Your ears go all red too,” he adds, and gives one a playful tug, “which is adorable. But on your face...it’s brightest right _here_.” He traces a finger down one cheekbone, across the bridge of Matt’s nose, and up the other cheekbone. “You look innocent and desperate at the same time. It’s really remarkable.”

His voice drops low as his finger trails down to the corner of Matt’s mouth. “Do you want me to fuck that pretty face of yours?” he asks.

He doesn’t have to wait for an answer this time. “Yes, _please_ ,” Matt says, leaning into Foggy’s touch, turning his head to try to get Foggy’s finger into his mouth, but Foggy pulls it away before he can.

He twists his fingers in Matt’s hair, tugging just enough to make Matt gasp at the pain, his dick giving an interested twitch. “Yes what?” Foggy asks. “Say it.”

“I want you to fuck my mouth,” Matt says, and knows he’s getting redder as he speaks. That’s okay, though. Foggy likes it. “I want to choke on your dick, I want to _ache_ from it, Foggy, _please_.”

Foggy steps in close and lets Matt press his face to the fly of his pants, lets Matt mouth at his swelling cock through the fabric. The smell of him is heady and heavenly, and Matt’s own dick goes from pleasantly intrigued to full mast with a suddenness that leaves him dizzy.

“Such a good boy,” Foggy says. His voice is still low and pleased; Matt wants to drown in it. “I love it when you tell me what you want, Matty. I love it when you let me make you happy.”

He tugs Matt’s head back by the hair to give himself enough room to undo his fly with the other hand. When he starts to push his pants down past his hips, though, Matt shakes his head, sharply enough that he winces as he feels a few strands break in Foggy’s grip.

“No,” he says. “No, I want...stay dressed, Foggy, please.” He loves Foggy’s body, loves every dip and curve and mole, but there’s something about being on his knees for Foggy, naked, while Foggy’s still almost fully clothed, that makes his blood run hot in his veins.

“Well, aren’t we the little tramp tonight,” Foggy says, his voice full of amused affection. “Okay, Matty. Because you asked me so nicely.” There’s a soft _shuff_ of fabric as he pushes his boxers out of the way and pulls his dick out; Matt’s drawn to the heat and the scent of it like a bloodhound. “You can have anything you ask for, Matty. Anything at all.”

Matt tries to lean in, but Foggy’s hand tightens in his hair, holding him in place. He rubs his dick against Matt’s cheek, and the warmth of it, the way he won’t let Matt turn to nuzzle it, to do _anything_ , is so good. Matt’s wrists flex helplessly against their bindings; he’s tied here, subject to Foggy’s whims.

“Please,” Matt says, still fighting to turn his head. “Foggy, _please_.”

“Please what, Matty?”

It’s safe to ask, with Foggy. “I want to taste you. I want you in my mouth.”

“Good _boy_ ,” and Matt opens his mouth and Foggy pushes in, too far, too fast, butting against the back of Matt’s throat and he’s _choking_ and it’s good, it’s so good - 

Foggy pulls out. “Color?”

“Green,” Matt gasps. “Green, Foggy, more, _please_ \- ”

Foggy cuts him off by pushing in again, and Matt’s answering moan comes out garbled and wet. Foggy doesn’t go as far this time, sliding halfway in and thrusting shallowly until Matt’s fighting his grip again, impatient and needy. He needs _more_ ; he needs Foggy to overwhelm him, to hold him where he wants him and _use_ him.

“Fuck, you’re so good at this,” Foggy murmurs. “You should be. Look how bad you want it, Matty.” Matt gives an affirmative moan. “Yeah, Matty, just like that.”

Matt’s fingers curl, nails digging into his palms, but Foggy doesn’t hurry. Foggy never hurries; where Matt’s all impulse and impatience, Foggy is steady, measured, and tireless, eternally underestimated and utterly unstoppable. Matt’s heard that stubborn patience dismantle a thousand cases in court. It’s dismantling Matt now.

He moans again, wet, and tries to make his gaze meet Foggy’s face, the warmth of Foggy’s breath and the whoosh of his eyelashes through the air when he blinks. Foggy laughs. “You trying to tell me something by batting those baby blues at me, Mr. Murdock?”

Matt flutters his eyelashes deliberately and Foggy laughs again. “Yeah, okay, I get the picture,” he says, and then he readjusts his grip on Matt’s hair, both hands fisted at the back of his head now so that he can really put Matt where he wants him, and Matt’s dick twitches in anticipation.

Matt’ll never admit it, but Foggy was right to warm him up slow, because this time when he shoves his cock fast in it goes much deeper, butting up against the back of Matt’s relaxed throat. Matt lets out an eager noise, too far gone to be embarrassed by it.

“That what you wanted, Matt?” Foggy asks, breathless now as he fucks into Matt’s throat in a steady rhythm. “That what you’ve been waiting for all this time?”

Matt can’t speak, so he settles for thinking _yes, fuck, thank you_ , over and over again. Foggy pushes even deeper on the next stroke, holding Matt’s head down on his dick until Matt’s fighting for air before releasing him. Matt lets out a muffled sob and Foggy does it again, a few smooth thrusts before the deeper, longer, choking one; a random rhythm Matt can’t predict, can do nothing but kneel there and ride it out, helpless and euphoric.

“God, Matt, you look so pretty like this,” Foggy pants. “All wild and eager and flushed all the way down, like you can’t get enough. Fuck, Matty, you’re taking it so well, my beautiful boy.”

Matt _sobs_ at that. He’s _floating_ , high on the oxygen deprivation and the praise and the _scent_ of Foggy, thick in his nostrils, clogging his throat. His jaw aches and his knees ache and his scalp throbs where Foggy’s pulling at his hair. He’s in _heaven_.

“So good for me,” Foggy groans, pushing in and holding again. Matt chokes around him, tears streaming down his face. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, or is that Foggy’s?

“Matty…” Foggy breathes, and suddenly pulls all the way out. Matt gasps for air as Foggy lets go of him with one hand, holding him in place with the other as he pumps his dick fast. “Fuck, Matty, gonna come…”

“Yes,” Matt rasps, his voice nearly gone. “Please, Foggy, I want it.”

“Oh, fuck, _Matt_ \- ” Foggy’s voice cuts off when he climaxes, like it always does, and it’s _Matt_ who groans when he feels Foggy’s come hitting his cheek, his chin, his open mouth.

Foggy stands panting for a long moment and Matt revels in it: Foggy’s breathing, his racing heart, his smell all over Matt, and _Matt_ got him off. Matt was good for him.

“Oh, Matty,” Foggy says finally, gathers Matt’s sticky face in his hands and kisses his forehead several times. “Do you want to come now?”

Matt had almost forgotten about it, caught up in Foggy’s arousal, Foggy’s need, but now he realizes that he’s aching for it. “ _Yes_. Please, Foggy, touch me, I need it.”

“Okay, partner, I got you.” Foggy lets his hand drop to Matt’s shoulder, doesn’t let up on the contact until he’s kneeling behind him. He did this sort of sustained touch for years, helping Matt place him in space, until he found out about Matt’s senses and stopped, apparently figuring Matt didn’t need it. Matt’s not sure when it started again, but it was probably some time after Karen died; some time after Foggy realized Matt needed it more than ever.

Once he’s settled behind Matt he pulls Matt back to rest against him, against the scratch of his clothes and the softness of his body. It makes Matt’s shoulders ache to press his bound arms between them like this, but it’s a good ache. “Color, Matty?”

“Green,” Matt says, turning his head into the curve of Foggy's neck. He's getting the mess all over him onto Foggy, but Foggy doesn't stop him.

Instead, Foggy kisses his ear, then curls his fingers on Matt’s sternum so that his nails are lightly scratching Matt's skin. Matt's breath hitches. “Yeah,” he gasps. “Yes, Foggy, _please_.”

“Please what?” Foggy asks, so close to Matt's ear that Matt can feel the shiver of Foggy's larynx in his _bones_ , right down to the marrow.

“Hurt me,” Matt says.

The words are barely out of his mouth before Foggy drags his nails down Matt’s chest, _hard_ , drawing sharp lines of fire along his skin. Matt keens, trying to jerk away from the touch and arch into it at the same time.

“Color?”

“Green, Foggy, green!” Matt scrabbles back with his hands, trying to hold onto something, clutching at Foggy’s shirt and yanking until he feels a button pop.

“Shit, Matt,” Foggy laughs, and pins him in place by slinging his left arm around Matt’s shoulders. The other smooths over the scratched lines on Matt’s chest, petting, soothing. “I’ve got you. Shhh, I’ve got you. You’re sewing that button back on, by the way.”

“Blind,” Matt points out, head lolling back again.

“You used to make your own costumes, don’t bullshit me,” Foggy says, and Matt’s trying to make his brain work well enough to say something funny in response when Foggy bites into the meat of his shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

“Foggy!” Matt shouts, pushing back against him. Foggy kisses the mark he left, then rakes his nails across Matt’s ribcage, left to right. Before Matt can catch his breath, Foggy reaches up and twists Matt’s right nipple until he _howls_.

“Foggy,” he pants, hands fisted in Foggy’s shirt, pushing back, harder, into him, as close to Foggy’s solid warmth as he can get. “Foggy, please, please, I can’t…” Each locus of pain is as bright as a flame to him and he’s dazzled by it, a moth that can’t stop its drunken circling. He can feel himself leaking steadily, he can _smell_ it; he’s so close. “ _Foggy_.”

Foggy kisses the hinge of his jaw and scratches up his right side at the same time, then gives the marks he just left a sharp slap. Matt _sobs_.

“You ready to come, Matty?” Foggy asks, his breath stirring the short hairs behind Matt’s ear. “You gonna come so pretty for me?”

“Ye- _es!_ ,” Matt tries to say, hitching off on a gasp when Foggy twists the other nipple. “Yes, Foggy, _please_ , Foggy, touch me, _touch me_ , I can’t - ”

It’s just a touch. Just a brush of Foggy’s fingertips along his aching cock, and he’s so keyed up that the gentle contact is all it takes to send him tumbling over the edge, moaning and arching helplessly back into Foggy. Foggy plays with him through it, drawing it out as he cups and rolls Matt’s balls in his free hand, until Matt’s shuddering and trying to pull away.

Foggy pulls back and unties Matt’s wrists - it takes a bit of effort, as Matt’s reflexive struggling has tightened the knot - then tosses the tie to the side and pulls Matt back into his arms, chin hooked over his shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” he says, and kisses the corner of Matt’s jaw again. “Hey. How do you feel?”

Matt sinks back into Foggy’s arms. His shoulders and knees ache from holding the same position for so long; his scratches sting and his jaw is throbbing dully. It all feels very distant, though, muted by the pleased endorphins buzzing around his system. “Hi,” he says, which isn’t the answer to that question but is the best he can come up with right now.

Foggy laughs and kisses his cheekbone; he’s so close that Matt can hear him scrunching up his face afterwards. “Whoops, you’re a mess. Do you want to sit on the bed while I get something to clean you up with?”

“Okay,” Matt says, and lets Foggy help him stand on shaky legs and sink onto the mattress.

“Good boy,” Foggy says, smoothing a hand over his hair, and slips into the bathroom for a minute. He’s back some unmeasurable blip of time later - Matt might not be focusing very well right now - with a warm washcloth: microfiber, incredibly soft, Kirsten and Foggy tease Matt about his washcloths all the time but _they’re_ not the ones with skin that makes terrycloth feel like drying off with a hairshirt.

“C’mere, look up,” Foggy murmurs, gentle fingers tipping Matt’s chin up. He cleans Matt’s face carefully, kisses his mouth, then wipes the splatter of come off Matt’s stomach and dick. “You probably really need a shower, but I think you’re too noodly right now. Maybe before bed.”

“Mmm,” Matt agrees, and chases Foggy’s lips for another kiss.

“Shameless, Mr. Murdock, that’s what you are,” Foggy says, and rewards him with two kisses, and three, and finally tosses the damp washcloth onto the nightstand and steps back. “Am I finally allowed to get out of these clothes you wrecked?”

Matt gives him what he’s pretty sure is a comically sleepy smile. “Are you finally going to lounge around the house naked all the time like I asked?”

“I believe the three of us put it to a vote and you were soundly overruled on that one, buddy,” Foggy says. He strips down to his boxers and undershirt, then hands Matt his own discarded boxers and one of Foggy’s old college t-shirts, worn soft as butter. Matt holds it up to his nose to breathe in the smell of Foggy woven deep into the fibers, and he doesn’t even have to be embarrassed that Foggy is standing there watching him do it.

“Hey,” Foggy says as Matt stands to dress, pulling him close, tugging his head down gently until he can rest his forehead against Foggy’s. “You know I’m so proud of you, right? You were so good for me, Matt. You asked for everything you needed.”

This, though… _this_ embarrasses Matt, and he hides his face in the curve of Foggy’s neck, even though Foggy’s so much shorter that he has to hunch to do it. Foggy rubs his back. “I love you so much, Matty. Anything you ever want from me, anything you need...all you have to do is ask. You know that, right?”

Matt nods, face flaming, and Foggy lets him go.

By the time Kirsten gets home, Matt and Foggy are on the couch, Matt’s head cushioned on Foggy’s thighs as Foggy narrates the TV show they’re watching. Kirsten’s brought them cookies from Schmackary’s, and she hands them out before plopping onto the other end of the couch, moving Matt’s feet to rest in her lap. Matt closes his eye and lets the thread of the show’s plot drift out of his head as he listens to the syncopation of their hearts.

No, he doesn’t deserve this, and no, he still can’t bring himself to believe that it will last. But he can believe _Foggy_. Anything he needs, for now at least, is his for the asking.

It’s more than enough.


	2. Notes

0\. Matt’s still sighted at this point - the age he was blinded at has moved around a bit in the comics but he’s generally depicted as somewhere between 11 and 16. He’s 12 here, so I figure the accident probably happens a few weeks later. Stymie Schmidt was one of the neighborhood kids who picked on Matt before the accident.

1\. Elektra Natchios, was, of course, Matt’s college girlfriend and first love, and the first person he told about his abilities (mostly to get into her pants).

1b. Matt and Elektra’s relationship ended when she and her father (the Greek ambassador) were taken hostage by terrorists. Matt put on a mask for the first time to save them, but Elektra’s father was killed; Elektra dropped out of school and went back to Greece, then on to ninja vengeance questing, and they didn’t see each other again for years, by which point Matt had become Daredevil and Elektra a bounty hunter/assassin. Bonus fun fact: Tom’s is the Seinfeld diner, or at least was used for the exterior shots on the show; it and Milano Market are a couple blocks from Columbia.

2\. Karen was Matt’s love interest throughout the 60s, but after she found out he was Daredevil she wasn’t so into, like, the man she loved almost dying all the time, so she moved to LA to try to make it as an actress. They sorta kinda tried to keep the relationship going for a little bit, but it was obviously on its way out. It was, however, the first time they ever seemed anything more than perfectly chaste together.

3\. Natasha and Matt dated for the first half of the 70s, and moved into a big house in San Francisco together. They were actually way more boring together than a couple that hot has any right to be. Alas!

4\. Heather Glenn was Matt’s post-Natasha girlfriend, a socialite with whom he had a relatively casual relationship until, these being Daredevil comics, everything went to hell. But they had fun for a while!

4b. Matt was super duper flakey about work towards the end of his relationship with Heather/during his relationship with Glori, and it was that (combined with some stuff that was legit Foggy’s fault, this isn’t all on Matt) that in part caused Nelson & Murdock to fold temporarily leading into “Born Again.”

5\. Okay, so. During the famous “Born Again” storyline, it was revealed that Karen had become a porn star and drug addict (...thanks, Frank Miller) who sold Matt’s secret identity for a fix. This knowledge makes its way to Fisk, who uses it to completely dismantle Matt’s civilian life, getting him disbarred (despite Foggy’s best efforts) and evicted, among other things. Matt basically has a complete mental breakdown and nearly dies, but gets better (thanks to the intervention of his long-lost mother) just in time to save Karen from Fisk’s hitmen. He forgives her, they get back together, and move into, like, a flophouse in Hell’s Kitchen.

Meanwhile Foggy has _absolutely no idea what the fuck happened to either Matt or Karen_ , both of whom were like “Hey, Foggy, I need help! Nope, never mind, now that you’ve dropped everything for me I’m gonna disappear under terrifying circumstances!” He’s also unknowingly working for a puppet corporation owned by Fisk, defending them for illegally dumping toxic waste and blinding a child (this isn’t Foggy’s most shining era)... _and_ dating Matt’s very recent ex, Glorianna O’Breen, who dumps Matt at the beginning of “Born Again” for being an emotionally unavailable flake.

Anyway, Matt and Karen, who are friends with the child who was blinded, are both appalled by Foggy’s professional choices, and rightly so, but the story itself never actually acknowledges that on a personal level they’ve both treated Foggy, who saved Matt from jail and risked his life for Karen, absolutely horribly. However, Glori does call Matt on being nasty to Foggy in part because he’s pissed that Foggy’s dating Glori. Basically no one here is being their best self. (Except Glori. Glori’s great.)

6\. Typhoid Mary is a villain with a split personality - sweet, innocent, powerless Mary, who initially didn’t know about her alter ego, and Typhoid, who has telekinesis and pheromone-y/mind control powers and a bunch of other stuff specifically calculated to fuck with Matt, like the fact that her smell and heartbeat are different between personalities so that he doesn’t know Typhoid and Mary are the same person. Fisk hires Mary to seduce and then kill Matt, which she sort of does in both incarnations? Matt’s basically having an emotional affair with Mary while also getting into kinky, BDSM-y, dubcon-y fights with Typhoid in alleys. The idea of her being particularly lethal/crazy/dangerous on top and him, like, finally defeating her by being dominant in bed (???) is 100% canon and super misogynistic and weird and gross and no one is really engaging in any part of this with enthusiastic consent. I’m not a Typhoid fan because of all the icky underlying misogyny, but she sure does work for this story.

7\. Karen was killed by Bullseye in 2001’s “Guardian Devil.” Don’t read it.

7b. The storyline where Karen was killed also involved Foggy being framed for murder and attempted rape, hence the scratches/prison stay. Seriously, don’t read it.

8\. I have no canon justification for this except that if you’re friends with Luke and Danny and you _don’t_ take advantage of that fact to have a threesome with them, you’re missing out.

9\. Milla Donovan was Matt’s first serious relationship after Karen’s death. Although she met him knowing he was Daredevil (he’d been outed by a tabloid), she never really seemed to understand the violence of his world, and their relationship in general was marred by bad communication. Eventually a supervillain drove her insane and she was committed to a mental institution for the rest of her life. Don’t read comics, guys, they’re terrible.

10 and +. Kirsten McDuffie is Matt’s most recent love interest, though she’s inexplicably AWOL in the comics at the moment. She’s also a lawyer. Foggy, meanwhile, spent the past three years or so of our time battling cancer, which went into remission at the end of the Waid run. I am choosing to disregard the current series and imagining that Matt, Foggy, and Kirsten have a happy little poly household in Hell’s Kitchen where Foggy and Kirsten spend like 80% of their time lovingly teasing Matt.


End file.
